Page 82 of Grim
His eyes flicker in surprise.
“My dad …” I continue, looking past him to the rain-spattered glass. “He loved getting lost on the water. Said the ocean was the only place big enough to hold all the things he couldn’t say out loud.”
Kane opens his mouth, but before he can reply, thunder cracks across the sky like a whip. The windows flash with white light, then dim into a sudden, torrential downpour.
“On second thought …” I exhale, rubbing at my arms. “Maybe not.”
We fill the next hour with a board game. Well, Seek and I do. Kane sits broodily, staring out the window, soaking in the grey. The object of the game is to spell words for points, but I decided we could use the pieces and playing board as tools to help Seek understand reading. He does great.
Can I teach him how to read in the time I have left? No.
Should that prevent me from filling our time with meaningful activities, like learning and laughing together? Also no!
The rigor of the activity seems to have a draining effect on the little spirit’s energy though, and eventually, Seek excuses himself. That leaves me alone with Kane, who continues to gaze menacingly out the window.
“Okay. Enough is enough. We’re not letting a little rain stop us from having fun.” I break the silence in the room.
He humors me with a laconic reply. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. We can talk. We can cook something. We can read.”
“You and I might have very different definitions offun.”
His dismissal frustrates me to no end. I cannot believe some rain is ruining one of my last nights on Earth.
“Fine. I’m going back to my writing then.”
I pull my notebook out from beside me on the couch and flip to a new page. That nausea that comes from staring into the abyss of a blank page returns, and instead of words, I begin to doodle furiously. I need this page to have something on it immediately.
“What are you doing?” Kane asks after watching me work.
“Doodling. I usually work on my poetry in here, but someone is staring at me, and I can’t concentrate.”
“Read me something.” His eyebrows lift.
“No way.” I do not hesitate.
“Read me something.”
“A compelling counterargument.”
“Read me something,” he repeats like a stubborn child being denied dessert, and like a tired parent, I relent.
“Ugh, fine. I wrote this one the other day. After some pompous know-it-all informed me of the exact moment my living days would cease to be.”
“Sounds like a real charmer.”
“He’s not,” I deadpan.
I glance down at the page I have held open. A sonnet Iwrote, inspired by this moment in my life, stares back at me. I take a deep breath and throw caution to the wind. Then, I begin to read aloud.
BeforeI Go
When you know that your days are quite numbered
And you can count them on just one frail hand.
A lifetime full of dreams now encumbered
